


ABANDONED VALOR

by ladyofstardvst



Series: frail bones, bloody skin [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Implied Violence, Swearing, everyones a hoe for cleaning up bloody characters and i am no exception, when ya find out the guy you like kills people for a living
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofstardvst/pseuds/ladyofstardvst
Summary: one of those 'i didn't want you to see me like this, but here we are anyway." things, in which our beloved musician!reader figures out who frank castle Really Is.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Reader, frank castle/musician!reader
Series: frail bones, bloody skin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875445
Kudos: 13





	ABANDONED VALOR

**Author's Note:**

> we all knew i would revisit them eventually, let's be real here.

Almost every morning, he woke from a dream.

It wasn’t always the same dream – rarely was it, actually – but the themes were the same, the plot was similar, and he always felt like he’d been shot in the chest, in the stomach, in the heart.

Dreaming about you – that only meant he had gotten too _close_ , is all.

_Fuck_.

August melted seamlessly into September, the nights growing colder, longer, darker. Summertime sadness drifted off over the sea into the Southern Hemisphere, and that occasional Winter Depression dipped it’s toes in it’s cousin’s place, ready to fill those shoes when the time felt right.

Frank Castle felt the chill of the wind tickle the tips of his ears, tugged the worn leather jacket closer to his body with his hands buried in the pockets. You were walking beside him, arm carelessly, casually, looped through his. He kept eye contact with you scarce, only glanced at you from the corner of his always alert, always on edge gaze.

He had a job to handle that night, and he wasn’t about to let you be caught in the middle of it.

Frank held your old, sticker covered guitar case while you unlocked the door to your apartment building. He reminisced silently over the familiar weight, the familiar feel of having an instrument he loved in his hands for the first time in months, years, eons. He almost forgot what doing something for joy was like, then wondered if that’s why he hadn’t jumped town yet; left without saying goodbye.

Your apartment was very _you_ , the signs you just played a gig prevalent in the organized chaos that overtook the most prominent spaces of your place. Sheets of music scattered on this table, open notes here, lyrics scrawled on scraps of paper there. Empty guitar stands, small holes in the decor void of practice amps and effects pedals. The equipment that belonged in those voids stayed with your band for the night; all you needed was your acoustic and the man who had breathed fresh life into your lungs.

_A_ _rs longa, vita brevis_ you said, when he commented on the way your music worked it’s way into your apartment decor. _‘A_ _rt is long, life is short.’_ _Art doesn’t wait for organization. When inspiration is there. . . it doesn’t wait until you’re primed and ready for pretty note taking. It comes in messy waves and late night dreams; it follows me home on the train when all I have is my phone recorder and a shitty Starbucks napkin._

_Fair enough,_ he answered, lips tilted in that almost-smile, the one that made your heart beat fast against your rib cage. Frank respected the _shit_ out of your artistry, your undying commitment to it – this was not an easy thing to chase, as a hobby or professionally.

God, he fucking _missed_ playing music.

He waited until you were fast asleep, the movie still flickered soft neon colors in the darkness when he slipped out the front door and let himself out.

He wanted nothing more than to stay with you, just for one night. And maybe he should have, because he fucking hated that he came back instead of sticking to protocol, instead of going back to his apartment where no one could trace him back to you.

Whispered curses, heavy footfalls, soft thuds of jostled furniture. The noise of Frank’s return was careful, quiet, controlled. He wasn’t loud enough to pull you away from dreams being dreamt, but you never slept when Frank slipped out into the night. Never dreamed. It was a lazy doze at best, part of your soul reaching out to the soft embrace of a healing sleep, the other clawing for every part of the world to keep awake.

You found him in the bathroom, door half closed with the sink rinsing away the gore from his hands, then freeing it from his face. It was like a second skin, the way shades of red clung to him in varying stages. Rain slick freshness, also tough, dried, aged.

Wide eyes met guarded ones in the mirror’s reflection under the harsh, bright light. The early stages of a black eye began to blossom over Frank’s right eye, and you tensed – he didn’t miss the way you stopped short, the way words died right there in your throat, before they ever left your lips.

Your heart constricted once, twice, thrice – when your eyes finally adjusted from leaving the dark. Knuckles bright red, deep blue, swollen and raw from constant use. An arm cried crimson, begging for anything to stop the tears. Tender ribs, plum colored bruises blossomed the length of his side, around his jaw. That, too, had already begun to swell. He wore the beautiful colors of a sunset on his skin, though instead of being inspired, he threatened to break your heart and paint the tile floor with the rising tides of emotion.

This man with night blooming gardens for armor, for bones, for a life. It was breathtaking, nonetheless.

“Let me,” you said, voice quiet in strained silence. Tentative fingers closed around his shaking hand, took hold of the alcohol ready to kiss his injuries clean.

The fresh thrum of adrenaline went ignored as you worked, slow and efficient. Every time he hissed in pain, clenched hands around the counter top to keep from flinching – the deep ache in your soul flared something bright and fierce and ruthless.

What remained of the night passed primarily without conversation. The occasional questions left your lips, and Frank refused to lie to you. He knew you deserved better than this, than him, than everything his life entailed – but he was not going to poison what little solid ground this – whatever _this_ was – had found by candy coating truths.

When the sky began to deliver the safety of daybreak, he was finally able to meet your eyes without fear. The blue hour was in it’s prime, dripped fresh, thick emotion heightened by a sleepless night. The contrast of his broken body to the regret that made home in his eyes – _well_.

This sure as shit was not what you signed up for.

“At least,” you spoke, unsure of so many things – unsure of what he expected you to say, after making it quite clear that _no, I’m not going to throw you out_ , and _yes, this isn’t ideal, but I knew, Frank. I knew there was something more to you. I knew it wasn’t conventional when you dodged my questions about what you do_ _for a living_ _._ “At least you’ve given me new material to write about. Discreetly, of course.”

His shoulders shook before you heard the quiet laughter. It was natural, the smile that broke your sullen expression.

“Always the artist,” his voice was hoarse, but tension melted with the shadows. Soft peony pink light gave chase to unease. The night had begun to settle, and nothing seemed impossible when the sun illuminated skeletons in the closet.

Steady fingertips lifted to graze skin that still resembled skin, traced his cheekbones and threaded through his dark hair. Your touch was feather light, barely there, yet it still made Frank’s heartbeat rage more than any fight ever could.

In that moment, he made up his mind.

History was not going to repeat itself – not this time. Not in this city. Not with you.

A marred hand reached to twine with the one at your side, always gentle, always kind. You minded his injuries best you could, but he would rather feel the white hot flash of pain by your hand than by that of any other.

You lost yourselves in one another, but it was different that night, that morning, that place where time wasn’t quite one thing, nor the next. The lines blurred, then disappeared altogether, because the only thing that mattered was the grasp of those moments. The stark existence of a simple life made of anything other.

When you drifted off to sleep, his fingertips left ember trails smoldering along bare skin. You wondered if you loved him.

You were glowing with golden dust from fallen stars, glittering bright and hazy and he knew, deep, deep down, where this could go, what this could be. If he were someone else, if this was another life.

He slipped out before the sun rose above the horizon.


End file.
